The Apple Trees

The end-of-summer, for us young folk, presages change - the return of school, the loss of a job, changing of friends, movement from place to place. We dread change because we can think of nothing but clinging on to the precious summer days we have made for ourselves, whether we have spent them lounging at the beach, pursuing our hobbies, or taking our first tentative steps into the "real world." Yet we know that the dread of change is always worse than the change itself, and many of us look forward to the resumption of study.

Late July's Weather is a fickle mistress - a natural reflection of the oscillating tides of our minds. Her sweltering days sap our souls, forcing us inside and making us pine for autumn, while her steamy nights warm our hearts. Through the night-steam, life resumes: Lying astride hilltops, moving a friend's furniture, strolling through empty baseball stadiums, or packing the floors of crowded night-clubs, we laugh and accept that change is what we live for, only to toss and turn alone in our soggy beds, cry, and reject the tyranny of change once more. The night air, already crowded with humidity, accepts our sweat and tears as an offering, and should we visit the window, the cloud-laced moon will be there to smile her approval. When the morning comes and we re-visit the window, we see helicopters and airplanes above, cars and people below, and we think to ourselves: No, July Life is not cruel - but it has never seemed so life-like.

Change has rammed our past and future selves together, creating a sudden, spectacular storm.


"The Apple Trees"

For the first time this summer
I cooked your famous
spaghetti sauce

the smell of my lonely apartment
reminded me
of apple trees

and brought back a memory
of you teaching me
how to balance

after Sunday school
under the shade
of apple trees

Last summer, while tasting
roasted marshmallows
my skin shivered

like embers of fire
diving into eyes and
apple trees

I remembered wrestling in the rain
with you, when
the quills of porcupine balls

quickened my heart
and made me cry
under apple trees

Years later,
I twist a stalk of broccoli
on a fork

a few inches in front of my face.
It looks like the original
Apple tree -

and finally, I think of you,
the you that could have been,
and my heart shatters -

But life is a cycle, not a rupture -

I see future summers
blooming among
the apple trees.